


Beloved

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Red Wedding, wow why did i write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Child, a moment of love ago you danced in the eye of the woman who made you.</p><p>(The Red Wedding.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Summary and some amount of inspiration taken from [On a Child Killed by a Motor Car](http://mautadite.tumblr.com/post/57083908053/on-a-child-killed-by-a-motor-car) by Martin Carter.

A moment of love ago you danced in the eye of the woman who made you. The drums created a thrumming pulse that shifted the blood and sent armies to war in the bones, but the rhythm moved a body, for all its cacophony. This was celebration; a wedding had just taken place. Heat oozed throughout and congregated within the weasel lord’s halls, but bound by duty and contrition, you danced, and your lady mother looked on.

For a time you danced with the twins, attempting to coax them into sharing idle pleasantries. Serra you complimented for the lightness of her feet; Sarra heard your feeble jest about anointing them the twins of the Twins. It made no difference. Both girls stared at your chest as they danced, honoured you with all the appropriate curtsies and ‘Your Grace’s, were gracious to the teeth, but spoke not a mite beyond what was required of them. 

The current Lady Frey provided much the same fare, as well as Lady Roslin, your uncle’s new bride. She might have been yours, several moons of loss and despair and love ago, before you’d been held by slim white arms and honeyed brown eyes in your grief; before you’d tasted anguish and bliss in the same night. Your Jeyne. You’d taken her father’s lands and his castle, and she’d returned the favour by taking your heart. But you did not think of her; you tried your best not to as you led Lady Roslin around the stuffy floor, twirled her and spun her. She was stiff and sorrowful in your gentle grasp, every inch the uneasy bride, and would not meet your eyes. You did not try to make her.

After you returned her to her husband’s eager arms, there were sisters and cousins and nieces aplenty to replace her. Fair Walda was amiably sweet, Alyx generous with her grins, and Fat Walda even had a jest or two to make you chuckle, and lift your mind from the heat and the drums and the drawn-out farce of a ceremony. Little Shirei kept that smile there, standing on your boots as she ordered you about in her politest tones. And always at your back, though her attention shifted and swayed as was needed, you felt the eyes of your lady mother, watching you. She did that very often of late. Look at you. But she was the woman who made you, and it was her right.

Only what felt like a few minutes ago you went to her, touched her arm, gauged her mood. Tired, tense, as ready as you were to be done with the proceedings. Red hair, several shades lighter than yours and ghosting grey in a few places, tumbled down her back in a weary waterfall. She still had a small smile to spare for you, though you knew she was not pleased with what was to become her lot after the wedding. The Mallisters were allies, not her kin, but you had meant what you’d said. _If you keep all your treasures in one purse, you only make it easier for those who would rob you._ Your mother was dear to you.

It was what prompted you to ask her for a dance, but she begged off politely, patting your hand. You found Dacey instead, and took her for a turn. The Mormont heir topped you by a few inches, and you’d seen her crush men’s skulls with that morningstar as easily as if she were buttering bread, but she moved with incredible lightness and joy. With her, at least, you could speak easily as you knifed through the thick air together. Dacey was your soldier and your guard, but one day, perhaps, she would be your friend.

It was a scant few heartbeats ago that you relinquished her, and accepted a cup of honeyed mead from a passing servant. The Lord Frey called down to you, and soon, by your order, a small cheerful mob was ready to bed the new couple. You watched as husband and wife were bustled off separately, japes and jests flowing freely. You entertained a fleeting thought of going along, but you were in no mood for revelry, and the thought of the bedding ceremony left you cold. There had been none at your own nuptials, and it had been all the more sweet for it.

The drums boomed, rising. Thick as it was, the mead did nothing to ease the heat clawing at your skin. You looked to your lady mother at the nearby table, expecting to find yourself once again encircled by her blue eyes. Instead, you found her some feet away, confronting Edwyn Frey with a sinking horror drawn into her face. The drums sang monstrous loud, and the players in the gallery began a different song that your memory told you that you knew. The Frey heir pushed your lady mother aside, and you moved to intercept him, anger singing in your blood.

Realisation was a knife, and it came too late.

Oh child, a moment of love ago you danced in the eye of the woman who made you. You hoped she did not hear you scream as the first bolt took your flesh; she did not deserve that, no more than she deserved to have to cry out your name so. The second one sent you to your knees, and sent the Smalljon into action as chaos struck the hall. You saw the table come down over you; too late for the third bolt that crashed through your chest and left you too weak to scream, too weak to even move for a few moments of terror. Blindly and with feeble fingers you reached for your sword, but it was not there. All around you men were dying; good men, true men, _your_ men.

 _Mother_ , you thought, head swimming.

Only moments ago you danced, but it seemed an age, an age before you could shift the table and struggle to your knees, your mother’s blood and your father’s blood staining the weasel lord’s floors, leaking like tears from your wounds. The old man himself sat high above the pandemonium and the groans of the dying, and raised his hand for silence, all the better to mock you in a croaking voice. You barely heard it. Outside, your wolf was howling, scrabbling at your mind like he did in those dreams that you never spoke of. You could not go. You could not leave your mother and your men here.

But Dacey was dead, you saw; so too for Robin and the Smalljon and most of your entourage. The only living face you recognised was that of the woman who made you, a hostage in one hand and a dagger in the other. A fresh wave of nausea and pain shook through you. It was an evil sight; she should not have to hold such things, say such things. _‘My first son, and my last.’_ Your mother was dear to you.

The pain made you dizzy, gave you tremors, but you had enough of your wits about you to coil inwardly when you took stock of what your lady mother was saying; her voice frantic yet strong.

“—take you for a father. Keep me for a hostage, Edmure as well if you haven’t killed him. But let Robb go.”

“No.” That much you could say. She could not; you would not let her. “Mother, no…”

A world of love ago you would have never imagined your lady mother saying the things she said then. You had been a child in those days, and king or no, you still were. The names of your wolf and your wife went echoing off your lips, but it was your mother in your eyes as you forced yourself to stand, and felt the twilight coming hard. Lord Frey was gumming at his lips, looking at your mother and his grandson, and in the gallery, a solitary drum pounded, pounded, pounded.

The woman who made you shook and pleaded, and it made you sick to think it was for naught, to think that you might have led her to this; as sick as the agony that stole into your every limb. Your legs wobbled, threatening to give out, and you felt someone come up behind you with murder in their gait. A moment of love ago you had asked your lady mother to dance, and she had smiled at you. 

“Jaime Lannister sends his regards.”

The steel came quick. You hoped your mother did not look.


End file.
